"Put down that wrench!"

While trying to excitedly tear a crust of bread to get at the Marmite thereon, the garklet has just managed to slip and deliver a perfect backhand to his beaker of milk. There's now a trail of milk that stretches from him, across the table, over my right arm, along the floor, over ias's work bag, up the side of the arm chair, over the cushion, and down the other side - a good three metres.

We're either going to have to invest in tennis lessons, or some sort of magnetic device for holding the beaker down.